


Never Mind the Warlocks

by longwhitecoats



Category: Chunder and Honks Poems - K. R. Fabian
Genre: Alcohol, Altered States, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Cocaine, Drug Use, M/M, Oral Sex, Seriously there's a lot of fucking cocaine in this, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, True Love, Urban Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-21 12:38:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17043881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/longwhitecoats/pseuds/longwhitecoats
Summary: Chunder and Honks: the urban fantasy AU.





	Never Mind the Warlocks

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thefourthvine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefourthvine/gifts).



The back of Hazza’s old Jag stinks of werewolf fur and cocaine dust. Chunder comes to and sneezes. It doesn’t seem fair to be a werewolf with dog allergies, but at least there’s a bit of bernie left in the Altoids tin to put up his nose before his nine o’clock. He checks his hair in the rear view mirror, strokes his stubble, and then squirts some found cologne-or-maybe-breath-spray in various orifices and pits before rolling out of the car and into the HQ parking lot.

The west wall of HQ is tarped and scaffolded in preparation for alleged renovations, but Chunder’s been working for the Unit of Magical Item Containment Or Retrieval, National (UMICORN) for a good three years now and no actual renovating has taken place. It makes a good cover for a morning piss, though.

Chunder snags a free donut from the break room on his way to the meeting, pleased that the powdered sugar and jelly on his shirt will cover for any remaining snow or blood. He slinks in as the big boss is giving the weekly rundown.

“...which I trust will prove a rewarding and lengthy partnership,” His Nibs is saying in that Etonian drone. Chunder’s nostrils flare: strangers in the office. A whole mob of them are lounging against the wall at the back of the boardroom, looking about as bored as the UMICORN division usually is at these things. His Nibs, aka the Hon. Roger Gormley, aka the division leader, is backpatting some pastyfaced exec who appears a hundred years past his expiration date. The exec nods and starts droning on with his own speech about cooperation and blue sky thinking and yadda yadda. Chunder looks around, curious.

The other strangers are eyeballing Chunder right back. One of them is embarrassingly good looking, tight-arsed and clad entirely in leather, including a leather baseball cap with the words “SUCK IT” studded on it in red rhinestones. He winks at Chunder, and Chunder feels a sudden and intense desire to obey the baseball cap.

“Most of you will continue in your current positions,” Gormley is saying, “and liaison digitally. Our retrieval specialists, however, will collaborate directly. It is our hope that the artefact can be returned swiftly and with the minimum of infrastructural damage.” He gives a pointed look at Chunder. “Thank you,” and he gives the nod of freedom; the meeting is over and Chunder can go back to his desk and keep surfing for video rips of _Gargoyles Gone Wild II_.

Except that the exec is walking over to him, and so is the baseball cap.

“Chunder, is it?” the exec says, his mouth puckering with distaste. “I understand you two have mutual friends at the palace; perhaps you’ll find that a helpful starting point for your partnership. This is Honks, the head specialist from Locating Enchantments Oversight, National. You’ll be working together on this mission. He’ll fill you in.”

“I bet,” Chunder says as the exec scurries away. Honks grins, showing two long canines lightly dipped in cocaine dust.

*

Chunder spends the start of the stakeout staring at Honks’ arse while he performs the locating spell, which apparently involves rolling around in a black t-shirt and briefs and dripping a lot of hot, red wax on himself. It’s not clear whether Honks is planning to put the rest of his clothes back on if the spell works and the artefact starts glowing in the windows of the warehouse across the street. But then, if Chunder needs to change into his fur suit for a fight, he’ll end up naked anyway.

And if they _both_ ended up naked, he wouldn’t complain.

“Qui officia deserunt mollit anim id est laborum,” Honks finishes, relaxing back into the pentagram. He sighs. “Hand me my robe, would you?”

Chunder tosses him a fuzzy dressing gown in the club colors of Manticore United. “So this is gonna work?”

“They don’t send just anybody to perform the Lorem Ipsum.” Honks winces as he pries dried wax from his pale, glittering skin. “Takes a few hours to have an effect, though. Telly?”

The hotel room is equipped with a bed, a digital TV, and a minibar, so they kill an hour or so emptying the mini bottles of booze and flipping channels. Chunder keeps stealing glances at Honks, who seems perfectly comfortable lounging around in a robe without any trousers on. He’s worked with partners before, but most of them want to chat about the job or catch up on paperwork. Honks is the first who seems like a proper lad.

“So you know Hazza?” Honks says, eyes still fixed on the screen.

“Yeah, he’s an old mate,” Chunder says. “Clubbing. You know.” Self-consciously, he rubs his arm, where the long sleeve of his velvet tracksuit covers his soulmark. He’d thought for a long time it meant that Hazza was his intended; he still can’t think about the wedding without a sick feeling in his stomach, either from heartbreak or the memory of binge drinking for 48 hours straight.

Honks looks over at him, and Chunder realizes he’s been quiet for a while. Honks has really long eyelashes. And a jawline that could cut glass. And a mouth that—

“I love clubbing,” Honks says.

*

So they don’t shag in the hotel room, but after sighting the artefact in the warehouse and fighting off three centaurs and a pissed-off gnome, they decide to have a bit of a knees up at the nearest club. This turns out to be a likely-looking den of sin called The Barracks, which Honks immediately nicknames The Bollocks. The bartender, a broad-chested lad wrapped in black leather and zippers, pours them a free round of Slippery Nipples after just two minutes’ chin wag with Honks.

“Do this a lot, mate?” Chunder says, with more jealousy than he meant to.

Honks just does the shot with a grin and grabs Chunder’s hand. “I love this song,” he says, pulling Chunder onto the light-up dance floor as Britney declares that she’s stronger than yesterday.

They dance long enough for the shots to wear off, and then Chunder loses track of time entirely. Honks rubs every inch of his tight body against Chunder, somehow sweat-free and even cool to the touch as Chunder’s temperature soars. Honks is soft, pliable, giving him such sweet looks from under those eyelashes, nipping gently at Chunder’s chest with his fangs. Finally Chunder can’t take it anymore. Any excuse – he’s got to get Honks alone. He needs to play it cool. Just say something normal.

“Fancy a couple lines in the gents, bruv?”

Honks beams. “Thought you’d never ask.”

The bathroom is quiet, muffling the bass line from the speakers outside. Until this minute, Chunder had forgotten about the Altoids tin, but now he gratefully pulls it from his pocket and sets it in front of Honks as delicately as if it were a dozen roses. Honks, for his part, dives on it greedily and immediately begins divvying the lines for a good noseful.

“Ahhh,” he says, coming up from the counter with a thin dusting of royalty down his face. “God. Nothing like it, is there?” He flashes that grin again, and then he suddenly kisses Chunder, full on the mouth, nothing coy about it, those velvety lips delivering more pleasure per inch than Chunder would have believed possible. He’s instantly hard, gripping Honks’ arse and pulling him in tight, wanting to feel him, feel every part of him. Honks moans, whispering _yes_ and _go on_ and _bonk me, bonk me_ in between kisses. Chunder obliges, pushing aside enough clothing to finger Honks’ perfect arse until he’s squirming and then slides himself home, thick and hot between those tight, icy cheeks. He fucks Honks powerfully, carelessly. He knocks the Altoid tin to the floor and he doesn’t even care, so lost in the shagging that he almost lets the wolf out. Honks comes twice before Chunder’s done, and they end up on the bathroom floor covered in the remains of the charlie, whispering sweet, coked-up nothings.

*

Chunder doesn’t turn in the artefact.

He turns it over in his hands all the next day while he’s having a lie-in at his flat. _It’s just a bit of green glass, innit?_ Honks had said. Neither of them were told what made it so important to LEON and UMICORN. For all Chunder knows, it’s just a bauble one of the higher-ups fancied, or a leftover bit of cleanup from shady spellcasting by someone in Parliament. It might not be important at all.

Rolling over to the side of his mattress, Chunder dips his hand into the remains of his curry takeaway and then licks the sauce from his fingers thoughtfully. He doesn’t date blokes. Not really. Even with Hazza, nothing happened. But the memory of Honks’ sweet arse is overwhelming. He must’ve wanked over it at least four times since they parted ways last night.

He looks at his arm, where three fuzzy lines stretch between his elbow and wrist. His soulmark. A picture of his soulmate’s very favorite thing. Mum always told him not to worry, his soulmark wouldn’t be too girly; his soulmate would be a woman with adult interests. Some of his chums had soulmarks of babies, kittens, even a full-page spread of a passage from something called _Jane Eyre_. Chunder did worry.

When he got the mark, he couldn’t believe it. That 18th birthday, it was the best present he could ever have imagined. Three perfect lines of cocaine, silhouetted against his skin.

Until last night, he’d never met anyone who loved double bubble more than Hazza. But when he thinks of Honks’ face looking at the tin—Honks’ beautiful, perfect face—

Chunder shoves the artefact under his mattress and begins a curry-coated fifth wank.

*

“So—we got the wrong—ah—what was it again?” Honks gasps in between thrusts. They’re staking out another warehouse, but nothing in the rules says they can’t fuck at the same time.

“Temdpfrmpty,” Chunder replies, face mushed against the hotel window as Honks pumps him from behind.

“Ahh—what?”

“TELEPORTER,” Chunder says, louder, throwing his head back. “Ahh, don’t stop, oh fuck—”

“Isn’t that—mmrgh—our suspect?”

“Bet you can come before he leaves the building,” Chunder gasps, and Honks does.

*

“If the object is a teleporter, why don’t they just— _teeth_ , teeth—yeah, like that—why don’t they just teleport it into the UMICORN vault?”

Chunder hums around Honks’ dick, lost in the smell. “Mmmfh fhfgghnn wff lllg aghm.”

“What do you mean it doesn’t work like that?” says Honks. “Ohhh—yeah, lick my taint, lick it, ohhh you beautiful thing, you.”

“It teleports _you_ ,” Chunder says, moving his mouth where instructed, “not _itself_.” He licks until Honks comes all over his face, and then Honks licks him clean, eyes still fixed on this week’s warehouse window.

“You’ve gotten pretty good at understanding my English when I’m slobbering your knob,” Chunder muses.

Honks pets his hair. “Yeah, well, for one of my languages, I trained in Cockney. Get your pants on, they’re moving.”

*

Every stakeout, Chunder thinks Honks will figure it out. They beat up goblins, interrogate pixies, even chase down another werewolf, after which Honks rims him gloriously in a broken loo at The Bollocks. Every time, they come up empty-handed. Chunder’s boss is starting to ask questions. This mission is important; clearly they didn’t expect a success right out of the box, but this has been dragging on. There are rumors they’re thinking of bringing someone else in. Chunder has nightmares of teams of werewolves breaking down his door and overturning his mattress while Honks looks on, disappointed. Most of the time, he wakes up and rubs another one out.

He’s got to hand it in. He’s got to.

But he doesn’t want Honks to go.

*

And then, one night, Honks isn’t waiting for him. Instead, it’s Honks’ boss, the pastyfaced suit. Chunder tucks away into a track suit pocket the pound or so of gold dust he’d giftwrapped, heart pounding.

“Where’s Honks?” he says. He didn’t want to come. It’s over. He’s figured it out. He’s had enough of me. He knows he can do better, he—

“Couldn’t make it tonight,” Suit says snippily. “Let’s go.”

They ride to the hotel in silence. Chunder feels sick. He knew he was pushing his luck, but he thought—he doesn’t know what he thought. That Honks would say goodbye? That they’d do one more line together before they parted? The idea makes him weepy; he wipes his eyes with the back of his hand before Suit can see.

Chunder occupies himself with downing the contents of the hotel’s minibar while Suit stares intensely out the window. He thinks about all the things he’ll never get to do with Honks. They’ll never go joyriding in Hazza’s second best car while coked up on prime pearl. They’ll never send each other dick pics on the company computers. They’ll never—Chunder chokes back a sob—they’ll never hire Boyzone to sing at their wedding—

“Are you _listening_ , Chunker,” says Suit sharply.

Chunder sniffles. “What?”

Suit grimaces. “There is _nothing_ in the warehouse. It is _empty_. We have entirely wasted our time,” he says viciously, clearly meaning _You have wasted my time_. “Have you even been following the leads we gave you?”

“Yes, of course—”

“What is the _point_ of hiring UMICORN’s expert werewolf, their so-called ‘golden retriever,’ if you can’t sodding retrieve anything? Fetch, damn you!”

“Now hang on a minute,” Chunder says, taking exception, and then he smells it. He stops.

Suit is now close enough that Chunder can smell him. His inner wolf flares its nostrils. He knows that smell. Dozens of nights next to Honks’ beautiful bloody nose, dripping with viscous smack and bodily fluids, have taught him that smell. It’s Honks’ blood.

Suit looks genuinely surprised when Chunder grabs him by the throat, fur bristling all over his body, clothes suddenly reduced to ribbons on the floor. His claws curl over Suit’s jugular.

“ _What_ ,” he growls, “ _have you done with my boyfriend?_ ”

*

Chunder finds Honks bound to a pile of logs in a shipyard, only partly conscious, but he stirs awake when Chunder kisses his forehead and whispers his name.

“Oh Honks,” he says, “oh my Honks, don’t be dead, I can’t do without you, oh—” He hardly knows what he’s saying. “Please, love, say something.”

Honks blinks his beautiful eyelashes, sees Chunder, and grins from ear to ear. “I knew you’d come,” he says.

“For you, always,” Chunder says. And then, “I see what you did there.”

“Nice one,” Honks says to himself, and then passes out again.

*

They recover in Chunder’s flat this time, while UMICORN and LEON go over what’s left of Suit and the hotel room Chunder left him in. Between rescuing Honks and calling his boss, Chunder had the presence of mind to plant the artefact on Suit, which is probably the best idea he’d ever had, really. Between buckets of PERi-PERi wings, he explains to Honks how he’d figured out that Suit was using the mission as a means of stealing the artefact, and Honks just rolls his eyes.

“Bloody figures. He always seemed shady, even for one of us. Makes sense that he’d go to UMICORN for the actual retrieval, so there’d be some plausible cover when the artefact just happened to slip through the interdepartmental cracks. Bet you they find all sorts of get-up at his place, once they get around to it.” Honks sighs. “Don’t suppose you saved any of that butler you had on you?”

Chunder hands over the package, which Honks gleefully unwraps and puts up his nose as fast as possible. “Ahhhh. Cheers, mate. What I don’t understand is—why didn’t you just turn the bloody thing in?”

There it is. The question Chunder’s been avoiding all night. All this time, really.

“Look, bruv,” Chunder says, voice quavering, “I’ve never—that is—” He looks down at his fingernails, stalling. They’re lying on Chunder’s mattress together. He ought to wolf up and say it. But he doesn’t know how.

Then, between the condom wrappers and used napkins strewn across their bodies, he catches sight of his bared soulmark.

He lifts it to show to Honks.

Honks’ breath catches.

“You see,” Chunder says, “I couldn’t risk it. I couldn’t risk not seeing you again. But I didn’t know if— I mean, I _thought_ it was you. I hoped it was you, Honks, I’ve never felt like this about anyone.” He swallows. “I didn’t know how to tell you. I just wanted you to keep coming back.”

Honks stares for a moment. Then he leans over and kisses Chunder hotly, passionately, so that Chunder does wolf out for just a second, destroying the briefs he’d put on and leaving fur all over the bed.

Chunder looks into Honks’ eyes, stroking his beautiful face as his claws shrink back down. “I didn’t know what I’d do if it wasn’t you. But I’ve decided I don’t care. I want you whether you’re my soulmate or not, Honks. I only want to be with you. Because—because—” he chokes the words out, tears spilling down his cheeks— “because you’re my soul _bruv_ ,” he sobs, and he buries his face in Honks’ chest.

He feels Honks’ hands in his hair, calming him, and then Honks gently pulls him away. His heart sinks for a moment—is Honks rejecting him?—but when he looks up, Honks’ expression is serene. Honks reaches for the zipper of his latex shirt.

“I want to be with you no matter what too,” Honks says. “But I _know_ you’re my soulmate.” And he unzips his shirt to reveal his soulmark.

Chunder gasps.

There, splayed across Honks’ perfect, glittery tits, is an exact replica of Honks’ face.

“My favorite thing,” Chunder whispers, stretching out a tentative hand. “Oh, Honks. Honks. You always knew?”

“You’re the one,” Honks says. “I knew. I knew,” he repeats, and then they’re kissing, and then Chunder frots himself between Honks’ thighs until he splooges all over the remaining pile of Henry VIII.

“I love you,” Chunder sighs, watching Honks chop it up into lines. “I want to look at your face forever.”

Honks grins, sinking his coke-dusted fangs into the powder for a taste. “Who says werewolves and vampires can’t be friends?”

Chunder sits up. “You’re a vampire?”

~ AND THEY LIVED HAPPILY EVER AFTER TO THE END OF THEIR DAYS ~

**Author's Note:**

> thefourthvine: Thanks for a truly inspiring letter and for requesting this -- I was desperately hoping this fandom would be my match & I'm so thrilled that it was. A very happy Yuletide to you. <3
> 
> Thanks so much to Toft & Dr_Whom for the beta reads and the consulting on puns, especially to Toft for coming up with the PERi PERi wings and to Dr_Whom for coming up with "Gargoyles Gone Wild."


End file.
